Unexpectedly
by darthsydious
Summary: Marguerite is forced to retire from the stage due to an injury. Monsieur Andre is good enough to support the little dancer and her mother. Will Erik approve? Rating T just to be safe. UPDATE 12/24/12 Separated the text into five chapters, so it's not such a monster to read!
1. Chapter 1

_12/24/12 THANK YOU to judybear236 for proofreading and sending me the list of mistakes. I cannot thank you enough! _

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><p>Unexpectedly Prologue<p>

It was a powerful pull for Marguerite Giry, the stage that is. She adored it more than anything else in the world. She loved the feel of powdered rosin coming through the fabric of her point shoes into her stockings. She loved the noise her shoes made on the floors, the feel of silky costumes, instead of the coarser fabric of her ballet uniform. She adored a new pair of stockings, the way they were unblemished and did not yet speak of the pain she went through for her passion. But she respected those older stockings, they served their purpose as well as the new ones, stained with sweat and blood, they revealed only a little of the grief each dancer went through. It is difficult to explain exactly why she loved all of it, the way she felt when she strapped on her pointes, how she felt after the applause. It could be most closely referred to as euphoria, a giddy feeling that started from her toes and went up to her scalp. Ballet was her life, and she gave everything for it. Eyes black as sloes, hair blacker still, her skin was pale as paper; she seemed nothing but bones. But oh how she danced! She seemed to come alive, her cheeks glowed, her hair bounced, her eyes snapped and shone. It seemed that only when she danced that Marguerite Giry was truly beautiful. She lived to dance and she did nothing but. There was something unexplainable to her that drew her to it, the feel of poised fingers, the feeling of weightlessness, then the sudden clumsiness when she landed from a graceful leap, hearing the 'thump' of her weight hit the floor. Hearing herself catching her breath as she turned a pirouette, the feel of sweat on her back. Of knowing her imperfections and sometimes moving beyond them. A dancer is meticulous, and Marguerite paid heed to everything she did. If she was not asleep in the dormitories she could be found in the practice rooms. She considered herself too poorly in looks to join the other petit rats in their journeys outside the opera house. She only went to church on Sundays with her mother.

Once in a very great while, Erik took her down below. Usually he came to her, to watch her dance. To Erik, she was a fée, a precious, flightless, cunning and coy little fairy all his own. Mostly elfish in looks but it all hardly mattered. When she danced for him, she was perfect. The most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Her eyes would shine and her cheeks would turn a modest shade of pink from her exertions. He truly believed she died when she stopped, in a little while, her skin would return to its usual pale-as-paper shade, her eyes were black and curious again. Perhaps it was good that she was enthralled in her ballet. One evening, as he watched her dance, he found himself with a sickening feeling, that as she pushed herself for better, that dance could very well be her end. He shook the strange feeling off, rebuking himself for thinking such nonsense. Marguerite would be famous, and she would dance until she was old and gray, and then she would train the petit rats until she was dead. He already planned her life for her, and he knew she could not disagree. It was what she wanted.

Chapter One

_Accident_ **Winter 1871**

The evening had gone on as many nights at the opera did. Marguerite was in her dressing room, waiting for the call to wait in the wings. Tonight's performance of _Sylvia _would be her crowning achievement. Her first solo as one of the Étoile's of the Paris Opéra house, excitement for Marguerite was an understatement. Her mother even let her curl her inky black hair, just for the occasion. Pinning it at the crown of her head, she let only a few short curls come from the high bun, seeing that they would not be in her line of vision or distract from her performance. Tying the ribbon about her hair and securing it, she gave it one final tug, and then set a few pins to it just to be certain. The tutu was a new style, with two hoops in it, making it wide, and impossible to see her feet. It took weeks to get used to this, but she'd managed. Her costume was a crème color, with gold embroidery on the edges of the tutu and lining her bodice. Finally, she sat down again at the vanity and tied her slippers, peach-pink silk, brand new, just recently broken in. She felt giddy as she inspected her appearance once more before taking a towel and a shawl with her.

Into the wings she went, waiting for her cue. Surrounded by her fellow dancers, the corps de ballet prettily dressed in the same style tutu she wore. The smell of rosin was heavy, gas lamps were placed everywhere, she made sure to flatten her tutu to her person as she passed each lamp, to be sure she would not start a fire. Sanding her shoes, she took one of the little wooden chairs behind the curtain in the wings and set her things on it, stretching one last time before she would go on. At last, her cue came, and off she went to dazzle the masses. She felt elated, moving with ease across the stage. Her footwork impeccable, all of it drilled into her head over the past two months. And for a brief shining moment in her life, a feeling that she could not describe came over her. So powerful she wanted to weep, to laugh and clap her hands and go on dancing until the stage split in two and swallowed her up. However, as happy as she was, in a moment her life would become just as horrible.

As she went into the _Piqué tour en dedans_, something went terribly, horribly wrong. On her fifth turn a sharp burning sensation shot up through her ankle, there was an audible snap though Marguerite did not hear it Monsieur Reyer did. With a small shriek Marguerite fell. The orchestra petered to a halt, Reyer had simply stopped conducting, too shocked to continue. Slightly dumbfounded with herself, she carefully got up, trying to ignore the whispers and gasps from the audience. She could hear herself breathing, the pounding in her chest was like a drum; it was a wonder that the entire audience couldn't hear it! The pain in her ankle was sharp, throbbing and shooting up and down her leg. Almost stumbling again as she tried to steady herself. She was slightly dazed by the pain and shock of her fall. Shaking off everything, Marguerite straightened, nodding slightly to Reyer, she took fifth position and the orchestra started. Ignoring the pain in her ankle she attempted again, the first turn took her breath away, the second turn made her cry out, but she forced herself on. The third nearly killed her and she felt something wet and sticky underneath her stockings. The bone broke the skin and she collapsed to the stage, clutching her knee to keep the leg from hitting the stage. Seeing the blood, she screamed covering it with her hands, she was somewhat aware of the shrieks from the audience, the loud gasps and talking. James, her partner, rushed out and knelt by her.

"Oh Little Giry!" he gasped, seeing her ankle. Stagehands above them peered through the ropes, staring at the blood seeping onto the stage, staining her tutu. James lifted her in his arms, several petit rats had hurried from the wings, one carrying Marguerite's shawl, another with the towel, wrapping Marguerite's ankle as she was rushed backstage. Her own screams frightened her. There was something frighteningly animalistic about them and she wished she could stop.

"She'll be ruined," voices hissed at her as James carried her out into the freezing street where a cab sat. Through blurry eyes, Marguerite caught glimpses of familiar faces, someone with warm hands was putting her dressing robe about her, someone else was wrapping her ankle and situating her on the seat. In a moment she lost consciousness, leaving her friends to worry.

"What is to become of her?" Messieurs Andre and Firmen, managers of the Opera house had been called to the hospital to hear the news of their youngest étoile. Already Monsieur Reyer and the Ballet Master had been sent for.

"I am afraid Monsieur's that we must remove the limb." The doctor said. The Ballet Master was livid; he stormed from the room, slamming the door. In a moment he returned, finding the room had been thrown into confusion, cries mixed:

"What?!"

"Impossible! No not the entire leg!"

"Surely it is only a broken bone!" Monsieur Reyer said. With a broken ankle, Marguerite wouldn't be able to dance immediately, but she would be able to eventually go back to the stage.

"No, not the entire leg but just as far as the infection has spread, a little above the ankle. Rosin from the stage entered where the bone broke the skin. We did not realize this until too late. It _must_ be removed, before the infection spreads to the bloodstream." The doctor spoke quietly.

"And if it does?"

"Then we may only make her comfortable, give her morphine and pray God takes her quickly." There was a gruff clearing of throats. Andre shuffled his foot a little. He loved Little Giry dearly; he'd watched her from afar, finding he held her close in his heart; only Richard Firmen knew this. "I am sorry Messieurs." The doctor took up several papers and paused a moment "I did not allow Madame Giry in the treatment room; I feel her knowing everything would likely be too much for her. If the news could be given in a way that is easier for her..." they all looked at each other, then at Monsieur Reyer.

"No! No, no it cannot be done! I refuse it! I won't let them!" Madame Giry flew into hysterics; Andre was inclined to hold her back from bolting through the door into the procedure room.

"Madame contain yourself! If it is not removed, Marguerite Giry will die!" only then did she stop writhing.

"Die?" she asked softly

"Yes Madame, there is nothing to be done, there _is_ no alternative." Antoinette clung to his arm, bowing her head over it as she began to weep.

"I'll see to her," Reyer said softly and began to lead her away.

"Who is to wait in the room? Mademoiselle Giry must have a recognizable face for now before the operation. She is frightened." the doctor asked, he looked to Madame Giry, she shook her head, eyes wide she broke down again

"I-I can't, no, no I mustn't, I won't be able," Reyer hushed her and Andre stepped forward.

"I will."

In the operating room, Andre walked over to where Marguerite lay, barely awake because of laudanum. He saw her foot and ankle, black and green and yellow, a corner of the bone sticking out. The smell alone was horrible, of rancid, rotting meat. Groggy as she was, Marguerite recognized her employer.

"Monsieur Andre?" she asked her voice soft as a whisper. "What are you doing here?" Andre found tears in his eyes.

"Hush now little one," he said, she winced as the nurses moved her bad foot. "Your mother was detained, and I was sent." In too much pain, and far too groggy from the laudanum to protest her wishes for her mother, she remained silent for a bit.

"It hurts," she whimpered at last, "oh it hurts make it stop, svp..."

"They'll see you to rights," he said,

"What will become of me?" she asked softly, her cheeks streaked with tears. He clasped her hand; her little fingers wound themselves tightly round his hand.

"Don't ask anymore." He said finally, "Go to sleep now Marguerite, and when you wake, there will be no more pain." Almost obediently, Marguerite shut her eyes, in a moment she was breathing deeply; laudanum had put her to sleep at last. She looked almost dead "Is she?"

"Oh no Monsieur, she's just asleep, the laudanum will do her good."

"How long before the procedure?"

"Only a few moments, the doctor's just washing up now, you'll have to leave the room during mind you."

"Yes I know." The nurse looked at the sleeping girl

"A dancer is she?" Andre was looking at her,

"Yes." He said softly "Yes one of the best." He sighed, "It isn't right. None of this is right,"

"No one said it was Monsieur, God-willing she'll come out of it missing only a foot, and not her life." Andre looked at her

"The ballet_ is_ her life." He said quietly, the nurse eyed him a moment

"Then we'll pray she'll find another reason to live." Andre saw the doctor enter the room; he turned back to Marguerite suddenly realizing that if the surgery was not successful, she could die. Bending forward, he gently placed a kiss on her forehead, before the nurse led him out to wait in the hall.

Marguerite awoke to the sound of rustling skirts, her eyes opened, she smelled laudanum, in fact she reeked of it. Her ankle and foot hurt immensely, she tried to move it a little.

"Where am I?" she asked softly, a nurse with a black dress and a white apron smiled kindly at her

"Hospital, Doctor will be in for you in a moment." And she swished out. Attempting to sit up proved exhausting, her limbs refused to cooperate. It took her a moment to realize she'd been strapped down. Was she in a madhouse?! How long had she been here? In a moment, a gentleman with a moustache entered, he wore a white coat. He smiled kindly at her,

"Why have I been strapped down?" she asked, fear in her voice "Is this an asylum?"

"No mademoiselle, forgive me, the nurse has yet to remove them, we've just moved you to this room these five minutes ago, we did not want you to thrash about when we exchanged gurneys." he signaled for the woman at the door to come forward and the belts were removed. Memories finally came surging back to her

"The ballet!" she cried "I fell and hurt myself; am I going to be well again? Will I dance?" panic rose into her voice and the nurse hurried forward, shushing her gently.

"You mustn't excite yourself; it's been a long week."

"Week?!"

"Yes Mademoiselle, you've been in the hospital for a week now," the doctor said.

"You haven't answered my question," she said quietly, worry in her mind. Why hadn't he answered her?

"Ah..." he looked down at the floor "Mademoiselle, your mother asked to tell you herself."

"Tell me what?" she asked

"Oh ma petit," her mother had been sent for. She wore her black wool dress, the plum colored ribbon on her bonnet tied under her left ear. She clutched a kerchief in her hands. Andre stood in the doorway, hanging back, and Marguerite wondered for a moment what he was there for. "Ma petit," Antoinette went to her daughter's side, stroking her soft pale cheek. "You must be very brave, promise me you will be brave..."

"Brave- what?" Unable to stand it, Marguerite took hold of the blankets and tore them away.

"No Marguerite, not like this-" Andre stopped himself from dashing in. With a blood-curdling scream, Marguerite fell against her mother, aching sobs ripped from her, she looked away not wanting to see the bloody bandages that encased the end of her leg. Andre turned away finding it hard to swallow.

"Best let them be." The doctor said gruffly and Andre nodded, casting one last glance back to the hospital room.

Antoinette rocked her daughter back and forth, shushing her gently, her daughter clawing at her back, twisting and turning so she wouldn't look at her leg.  
>"I know my love, I know, I know...cry all you wish ma petit..."<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Two Old Friends_ April 1877

The day was sunny and bright, Marguerite was dressed in pink taffeta, and she sat in her wheelchair before the window, looking through the curtains out at the bright day. This was what her life had come to. A life in a chair, embroidering, knitting, or reading. She was bored to sobs of it. She ached to dance, to move, do anything to get out of that chair! The first year had been torture to her, to be full of life and forced to sit still, it depressed her greatly. Used to an active life, sitting in a wheelchair was taxing on Marguerite's mood. She did try to keep the positive outlook her mother had, but it was difficult.

"Marguerite," she looked up from her book to see her mother standing there, still in her Sunday dress from Church. "Marguerite, Monsieur Andre is here to see you." A smile grew on Marguerite's face and she shut her book, setting it in the pocket that attached to the armrests of her chair.

"Monsieur Andre!" she said, stretching out her hand to him as he entered "What a wonderful surprise, please sit down I'll have Trudy bring in coffee." Ever since her accident, Andre had taken it upon himself to see that she and her mother were taken care of. Impossible for Madame Giry to take care of her daughter and work, Andre saw to it they had a housekeeper, he saw to it they were moved to a better district and he visited once or twice a week, sometimes bringing a basket of fruits with him. Over the past six years, she'd grown fond of the old gentleman and was always pleased when he visited. Today, he held out to Marguerite a bouquet of tulips, she gave a delighted gasp

"Oh how lovely!" she said, excited with the gift. "You really mustn't spoil me Monsieur."

"Tush, you know my answer to that, and I'll not argue with you on such a fine day." She smiled "Now tell me," he said taking a seat across from her "How are you feeling this week? Have you practiced your piano?"

"Yes I have," she said "and I've been much better, my cold is gone at last." she said

"Yes I see," he observed "Your complexion is better I'd warrant."

"How is the opera?" she asked him each visit how everyone was, what would be performed and so on. "Is the corps de ballet doing well?"

"Both are exceedingly well, our latest production _Die Walküre_ is a great success." He said, she expected him to say more, but he didn't. He sat quietly and so she was inclined to ask:

"But?" he looked up

"But I am tired of it." He said

"The opera?"

"Running it." He said "I'm five-and-fifty and sick to death of this entire opera life. I want to leave it, and I intend to."

"Oh you won't leave us will you?!" Marguerite cried worriedly.

"No, no you mustn't worry, I'm only eager to see the end of the season, so that I might leave the city and go to the country for a little while. It will all mend itself while I'm on holiday." He patted her hand and changed the subject. Marguerite said she hoped he would enjoy his holiday, and remember he was always welcome to visit, should he tire of being waited on.

"My dear, you sit in a wheelchair and you wait on me," Andre said "I'll never escape it!"

"I _ought_ to wait on you," she said "for everything you've done for Maman and I, you are very good to us." He smiled to himself, stroking his chin.

"May I speak frankly?"

"Of course, you know you can't offend me," she said with a wry smile.

"You know I never married," he said, half to himself. "When I first joined this business partnership, I hoped one day to take care of you,"

"You have, well you _are_-"

"No you don't understand, I'd hoped you would take care of me as well, oh, shh, don't fuss, that's all behind me now you see. I am very happy with the way things have turned out. You've become quite a young woman Marguerite," and she blushed a little, he took her hand,

"I never knew my father," she said "but I should like to think of you as the best I could have had." Andre smiled and kissed her petit hand.

"Then no more worries of my leaving you or your mother," he said standing. "Now I'll be off. I'll visit before I take to the country, if your mother permits it, perhaps you and she might join me. A little holiday would do you good, country air does wonders for the mind."

"I'll have to see." She said and let him press her hand before he left, calling goodbye to Madame Giry. Marguerite smiled to herself. She was fond of Andre, he was the dearest person to her and she had meant what she had said, he was like a father to her. The past six years he'd been nearby, just in case of anything, and he made sure she knew. When she was first sentenced to her wheelchair, he visited every week, sometimes Monsieur Reyer stopped in with him, usually though he was alone. She was grateful for his companionship, and so was Madame Giry, knowing her daughter had not made many friends, close friends, in the opera. Andre, very much like a father, had become Marguerite's entire world.

**That night**

"Thank you Trudy, goodnight."

"Goodnight Mademoiselle." And she turned down the hall to finish up in the kitchen before turning out the lights. Wheeling herself from the necessary to her room, Marguerite lowered the footboard of the chair and took hold of the trapeze bars that were suspended from the ceiling. With a firm grip, she got her balance on her one foot, the other leg hanging useless. Suddenly, strong bony arms were assisting her onto the bed. Turning back, she saw a black-clad figure, impossibly skinny and a pair of almost skeletal hands. A white mask covered his face, a cowl hid the rest of his head. She gave a startled gasp

"Erik! Oh, you gave me a fright; does Maman know you're here?" Erik knew the Giry's rather well, Antoinette was his box keeper and he paid her exceedingly well for her silence. He'd been away for nearly seven years, traveling the world. He wrote to Marguerite, sometimes never more than a few sentences, telling her of where he was, a little of the city and the customs.

"No, she does not Little Giry." He was still staring at her leg.

"When did you arrive? How was Persia?" she situated herself on the bed, ready to tuck herself in. He nearly stepped forward, ready to catch her if she fell. He was quiet a moment, his glowing eyes looking her over.

"What happened?" he asked, nodding to her dangling leg, or what was left of it.

"An accident," brushing it off was easier now. "A performance, on a fifth turn I broke my ankle and the bone pierced the skin. It became infected." at this Erik bent over to inspect it; his long fingers hesitated before he glanced up at her for permission.

"May I?"

"Yes go on," she said and he gently took her leg, examining where the ankle had been amputated. His cold fingers on her skin gave her gooseflesh as he examined her.

"Well it was nicely done anyway." He said gruffly, and she could see he was hurt by it.

"Nicely done, thanks very much, I feel like a veal cutlet." She teased.

"My apologies," He said straightening.

"How long are you in Paris?" she asked, watching as he stood up to examine her room.

"My stay is indefinite." he began to poke about her vanity, through her jewelry box and such. She'd always said he was like a crow, fingering shiny brooches that she was given or plucking at a ring she had worn.

"Good," she said smiling a little. "I've missed you Erik, why did you not write and tell us you were coming?"

"I did not think you would care."

"You've known me since I was six, how couldn't I?" she asked a little indignantly and he chuckled a little.

"Forgive me Marguerite," he grew sober after a moment. "Do you miss the opera?" she nodded.

"Monsieur Andre says it will get easier, but-"

"Andre? That blundering fool?" Erik snorted

"Don't be cruel, he's been very good to us, he's the one who's bought us this house and all of our things and hired Trudy. He's seen to us and made sure I'm comfortable." Erik immediately nodded

"That is very good news, I greatly misjudged him." Marguerite took hold of the handle above her, ready to stand on her good foot when she stumbled over her night table. Erik was there to catch her and he set her down on the wheelchair.

"I'll never get used to it," she lamented, "six bloody years and I'm still tripping." sighing to herself she put up the footboard and wheeled herself over to the vanity. Unlocking a drawer she pulled out her old pointe shoes. "These aren't the pair from the accident, Maman won't let me see them. She's afraid I'll frighten myself," she smiled "I try these on sometimes, well, one of them anyway. Sometimes, when I know Maman isn't in the house, and Trudy is upstairs, I'll take that handle there, I'll go up like I used to." she smiled to herself at her secret, as if she were a child caught at something naughty. "I tried it again a few weeks ago, just to see if I could still. It hurt; it hurt so much I almost cried," Erik watched, almost astounded as she wiped her eyes with her little hands. "It never used to hurt Erik. There is too much left of me, and I can't do anything about it," she sniffled. "You don't know how good Andre has been to us, he's tried to keep me distracted, busy during the days so I won't think of it, sometimes I can't help myself. Sometimes, I think I'll go mad sitting in this chair all day; it's all I can do! I hate this chair so much I want to tear it to pieces some days," Erik watched her cry "I know I'm being selfish," she said after a moment. "I'm sorry I'm so selfish, I wish I could be good like Maman."

"You are good," he insisted. She pushed herself over to him; he let her take his hand. She kissed it gently, his fingertips and his palm.

"I missed you Erik," hesitantly, he stroked her inky black hair, untangling the snarls. Gently kissing her forehead, he sighed

"I missed you too." There was a thump in the hall, and both sat straight now, staring at the door.

"You'd best go," she whispered, wiping her eyes, his long fingers rested on her cheek, his eyes glimmering at her.

"I'll return tomorrow evening," he whispered his cold fingers drifting over her cheek before he turned and fled through the window, shutting it silently after him. Quickly hoisting herself onto the bed, she crawled to the window and watched him climb swiftly up the gutter spout and leap out of view, onto the tiles of the roof.

True to his word, he returned, and soon enough she'd told him everything that had gone on while he was away. He was pleased to learn she played piano now, and that she painted and sketched a little.

"It is not at all like dancing," she said "but it keeps me occupied."

"Andre was good to keep you entertained with difficult things. It will keep you busy and leave little time for you to think of missing your old life." Erik said and she smiled a little.

"I told you he'd been good to us."

"Hm." And she smiled teasingly

"Are you angry with us because we let him become so close?"

"No." he said quickly "I am perhaps a little disappointed in myself for not being about when it happened, and a little perturbed at you for never writing."

"Your address changed by the month," she said "And besides, I thought you might want to know in person. I think it's very crude to write such a thing by letter."

"Were you planning on writing that you are leaving Paris next week?"

"Why how did you-" he held up her train ticket that had been sitting on her vanity beside her brush. "Oh," she flushed "no, I was going to tell you, I wasn't quite certain how. You've only just arrived I hated to break the news so soon."

"How long will you be away?" he asked after a moment, setting the ticket down again.

"Most of the summer, we've got to be back before the season though, Andre has business to deal with and Maman has the fall cleaning to do." Erik left a little while after that, promising to visit each night, and he did. They talked until very late, or until something was heard in the house. On the last night, Erik brought a parcel with him.

"Here," he said a little gruffly "something to keep you occupied while you're away." She found, wrapped in the soft cloth was a beautiful walnut writing desk, a beautiful painting decorated the lid. Inside was the most beautiful paper she'd ever seen. Her initials were monogrammed in black ink, standing a little above the surface of the paper. There were new nibs for the pen, and three different shades of ink to use, red, green and blue. "Perhaps now you'll find time to write." He said, "My address shan't change while you're away."

"And when I come back?" she teased and she nearly made him smile.

"We shall see." He said. "Meantime, you'll write and tell me of Provence and your music lessons. You mustn't forget them, if you are unhappy there, I shall write to your mother and collect you immediately."

"Oh Maman would never allow it," she said "but it is a positively delicious thought, like we'd be escaping like in a fairy-story!"

"Am I the dashing knight?" he asked, he pulled himself up tall and tossed the end of his cloak about his shoulders as he strutted about the room, to Marguerite's surprise he seemed almost comical. She covered her giggles for fear her mother or Trudy would hear.

"No, you'll be the rogue highway man that Maman and Andre have forbidden me to see!"

"Well I shan't carry you off." He said haughtily and she folded her arms indignantly.

"Why ever not?" she asked, they suddenly found themselves quite close and Erik stepped away, almost cowering. Marguerite, who'd forced herself to her good foot, clutching the handle that hung from the ceiling, lowered herself onto the chair. Both were quiet a moment.

"You'll write." He said

"Yes, and you'll try and remember to write me back."

"A promise." He said and bid her goodnight and wished her a safe trip. "I meant what I said," he mumbled into her hair, stiffly refusing to hug her back. She had nearly _flung _her arms about him, knowing she wouldn't see him tomorrow. She let go, sitting down again. "If he is unkind to you, behaves inappropriately, I want to know, and I'll take you back to Paris."

"Yes I know," she said quietly "but you won't have to." He stood in the windowsill a moment, ready to clamber out onto the gutter spout.

"I know." He muttered and left her there in the moonlight.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_Lettres_

"_Dear Erik,_

_You asked me to tell you how I was enjoying Provence, and to write as soon as I was able, and so I am. It is very fine here, Andre has made sure Maman and I want for nothing, as usual. The dear man. My room overlooks the grounds and I think even you would appreciate them. I've a little balcony to wheel myself out onto, with pretty red flowers, a specie which I cannot name, but they smell very sweetly whenever there is a breeze. Today Andre is off hunting, Maman has gone to town, so I am very happy to stay in the drawing room that Andre has bequeathed to me for my visits. There is a pretty little piano in the corner that I'm able to play and I've already been painting out-of-doors. It is good to feel happy again. I think I was needing to leave Paris, just for a few months, I'm very happy here. What of you Erik? Have you been composing again? I should like to hear what you've written when I return. You must come and play for me. You will won't you? Oh yes, and you'll never guess what Andre has let me do. He's let me ride a horse! One of the mares that is very gentle and sweet. Maman was furious at first, but she could not say no when Andre said he would ride with me whenever I went out, and I'd shown her how good a seat I could hold in the side-saddle. I only need one foot in the stirrup as it is. Andre says I've improved in my riding lessons, though he refuses to let me jump. You'd laugh I think, if you knew how much I'd like to, I want to be able to take the little one at least, won't that be amazing? Oh, Maman is back and she's calling for me. Write soon dear friend, I'm missing you every day!_

_Warmest affection_

_Marguerite"_

Setting her letter aside Erik turned and pulled out a sheet of paper. Marguerite wrote every week, and he did his best to remember to write back, if she reminded him. Usually she did, he was not busy at the moment so he took out his writing desk.

"_Dear Marguerite,_

_I am pleased to hear you wish to advance in your equestrian skills, I have no doubts you will be the finest horsewoman in all of France. You will have to show me your paintings, are you improving on your brush strokes? Recall I told you a lighter touch is best, don't press the brush, you'll ruin them and wear them down sooner. As for composing, yes, I've written a little, but I'm unsure as to come and play for you, you well know my reasons. I suppose it is very coarse of me to say that I long for you to visit me, and I'm sure your mother would forbid me to even think such things, but as she is not part of this correspondence, I am free to say what I wish. When you return, I shall bring you to the house by the lake, you needn't worry, you will be in Erik's care and you've said before you've complete trust in him. Provence is very fine this time of year, I suggest painting one of the lakes; it is the best time of year to see them. You mustn't worry over your mother; she loves you dearly and only wants your safety. Only don't let her worry herself into a panic, I've found she is impossible to calm at that point. I must go, my alarm is sounding, and I believe it is Nadir Khan. The fool has the worst habit of dropping by at the most inopportune moment. _

_I'll be expecting your letter within a week._

_Erik."_

"Another letter?" Andre asked, "You keep correspondence remarkably well, I wish I had your enthusiasm." He said and Marguerite smiled

"It is a dear friend I've known for years now." She said and took up her writing case, she loved hearing from Erik, and his last letter was the longest he'd ever written to her.

"_Dear Erik,_

_While I am flattered you wish for me to come to your house by the lake, I must say I am very frightened of the journey down. You know it is impossible for me to walk, and I refuse to have you carry me. I think both of us would be exhausted, and Maman would murder me when I returned. I do wish to see it again, but unless we both find a way for neither of us to exert ourselves immensely in order to get there, I'm afraid it is out of the question. You know I trust you with my life, and I pray you hold me in the same regard; this is not my doubting your abilities (though you'll be certain to perceive it as such) only my doubting my own. Enough of this, I shan't argue with you. Yes, Andre has taken us to the lakes, you were right they are beautiful. I've managed to paint a little of them, and I am improving my brush stroke. Maman still refuses to let me jump, but Andre is waning, perhaps in another week or so. Maman is convinced I shall break my neck. Also, I find that with a brace about my waist, I can stand. Such a contraption has been built for me, and I'm learning archery. It is good to keep the mind so distracted, I feel marvelous and busy. I'm enclosing music in this letter, some of my favorite pieces; the best portion is on the third page. I think you'll find it satisfactory. Also, I've started a new book __Jane Eyre.__ I believe it is a first edition, as it is rather battered and a little torn, but I hardly know how a person could tell. Either way, I've begun it and hate it already. It's a very stupid plot with many dense characters that I loathe. I've resolved to finish it, because I dislike leaving something undone, so I shall do my best__. I must go now, it is time for my riding lesson. I must not ride for very long though, my leg aches sometimes and today it is especially painful. I shan't let it ruin my day though._

_Dear affection, _

_Marguerite."_

Erik set the letter down beside his music to read again later. He looked over the music sheets she'd sent along and smiled.

"_Dear Marguerite,_

_I am afraid I am not familiar with that title, it's stupid you say? Why finish it then? Keep away from those ridiculous penny-dreadfuls and books of silly things ladies of your standing oughtn't read. I won't have you filling your pretty mind with trash. I also recommend Charles Dickens, as well as Jane Austen's writings for light reading. Have you read Plato, or any of the Greek philosophers I mentioned to you? It would not do you any harm to sharpen your mind some. Though I have the feeling you shall have me eating those words. I received the music and you are right, the passages you pointed out are surely the best throughout it. Perhaps when you visit me (which you shall, I've arranged it so you needn't fear) you might play a little for me. Also, a little cat has been found wandering the dock of my home. I've resolved to drown it, should it claw the furniture. _

_Erik._

_P.S. If your leg continues to ache, I shall write to the Persian. Perhaps he might find a remedy for you." _

Marguerite shook her head. Beside her was a small stack of books, most by Dickens and some by Plato. Having returned from painting the south side of the house, Marguerite found the letter waiting on her stack of books in the drawing room. Gladly, she picked up her pen and set up a fresh sheet of paper.

"_Dear Erik,_

_You know I've complete faith in you, and if you have indeed found a way for me to visit you without Maman finding out, then there is nothing for me to say but that I am at your mercy. As for 'ladies of my standing'? You know I'm of no title, nor fortune. I don't understand you at times Erik. I've started __The Pickwick Papers__, and have already finished __Bleak House__. I've painted the lakes several times, at different points. Andre is very pleased and insists on keeping one of the paintings in the drawing room for visitors to see. I am in want of your companionship now, I'm missing Paris greatly. I believe Maman is too, and besides it's nearing September. Andre has begun to talk of booking passage already. Please tell The Persian that I did receive his package and he is right, it has stopped the aches in my leg. You must thank him for me, please. I'm sorry the letter must be so short, I'm afraid I've told you everything that I meant to. _

_Soon to see you and warmest affection,_

_Marguerite."_

Erik's reply mystified her,

"_Look for me by moonlight,  
>Watch for me by moonlight; <em>

_I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way._

_Erik."_

He'd sent along a little key with _RS _inscribed on it. Erik had not told her what it went to, so she supposed he meant to tell her when she arrived. Pocketing the key, she folded the letter, putting it in her writing box. There was no need to answer his; she knew he didn't expect it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four "_RS"_

True to his word, he was waiting outside at midnight, hidden on the roof where Trudy would not see him. In a little while, he heard a back door open and close quietly. Then wheels on the little ramp down to the garden. Marguerite sat in her chair, bundled in a coat, her gloved hands clutching the wheels. He dropped down to the ground and she looked up, hearing his light footsteps in the grass.

"You came." He said, sounding pleased.

"Yes I did."

"Are you warm enough? We've a ways to go."

"Yes I am, I've got a coat and a blanket besides."

"Good, come along then, Daroga will not wait all night."

"The Persian you mean?"

"Yes, he's the one who helped me arrange it all," Erik pushed her chair down the garden walk and out the back gate, shutting it as silently as possible and latching it properly. He pushed her down the sidewalk; none of it seemed as inconspicuous as Marguerite had planned. Erik saw her confusion and chuckled.

"It would look best if we appeared as if to be taking the air before retiring," he said, "We'll be safer this way." True enough, any police officer they passed merely nodded to them or warned of the cold and Erik would nod in agreement. He'd nod to Marguerite, who sat in the chair, saying in the most horribly pronounced French she'd ever heard in her life,

"But you see the wife insisted for the night air, she must have her air you see."

"Ah, good evening to you then," and the officer would go back to his beat, leaving Erik to laugh quietly to himself and Marguerite to scold him for being saucy.

"You mustn't tease them Erik," she said and he smiled underneath his mask. In a little while, they came upon a carriage; the Persian stood in its shadow. Holding the bridle, he spoke quietly to the horse, steadying it as they approached. Marguerite waited patiently as the footboard on her chair was lowered and Nadir helped her to stand. The door of the carriage was opened and Erik held the horses as Nadir lifted her into it.

"I can manage," she said, grasping the sides of the coach, she lowered herself easily to the cushion and Erik situated a lap robe over her. Once he had shut the door and sat down across from her Nadir gave the order for the horses to walk on.

"You're warm enough?" he asked, and she nodded. The carriage was snug, and the lap robes thick. "You brought the key I gave you?"

"Yes, it's here," she pulled it out of her purse, letting him see it. "What is the RS for?"

"The Rue Scribe." He said. Marguerite knew what he meant, the gate that stood behind the opera house, the back entrance. "It's for you to go in and out of, to make it easier."

"But I don't go anywhere. I can't leave the house."

"I beg to differ." He said.

"Yes...but Maman would never let me," she said. "I can't- I can't leave-" the carriage pulled to a stop and Marguerite looked out the window, forgetting she had been in the middle of a protest. The moon was high and the sky was clear, the lamps cast warm glows on the sidewalk. She could see the candelabrum with the quadrant, Erik tapped the roof,

"Go round the back Nadir, we're not to go in the front," The carriage started again. A surmounted balustrade, with eight decorated columns of spurs and ships and twenty-two statues lamps, surrounded the sidewalls. The statues were named Star of the Morning and the evening star, each bearing either a crescent moon or a star in their carved tresses. Their lamps were already lit as they drove past. Passing the carvings of Le Comédie et le Drame, they at last found the gate on Rue Scribe. There Nadir Khan stopped the carriage and jumped down, pulling Marguerite's chair from the back of the carriage. Erik opened the door, motioning to her that he'd be back in a moment to help her. She heard him go over to The Persian

"You've the crutches?"

"Yes under the seat."

"Good." Erik returned and held a hand out to steady her. On her one foot, she managed to hobble over to the step, "Permit me," he muttered and set his hands about her waist, setting her on the ground. The chair was set up and a blanket was spread over her lap once she was seated again. Her eyes drank in the sight of the grand building. Oh she missed it. She found a dull ache within her and she wanted to cry.

"Let me see it," she begged, "I want to see inside."

"Hush now, we cannot, too much noise," her shoulders slumped a little, and Erik wanted to cheer her. "Perhaps another time," he said, "When we've managed a routine." And she nodded.

"Yes of course," and she took delight in the things she was allowed to see. They went through the Rotunda of the Moon and Rotunda of the Sun. The Bibliothèque-museum was locked already but Marguerite could see the shadows of books, the little bits of embossing shining in the dim light.

"Wait," Erik said as Nadir made to turn to a nearby passage. He wheeled her down the hall, and Marguerite felt a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

Pushing open the carved doors, they wheeled her into the Foyer de Danse. The smell of rosin filled her nostrils; she shut her eyes breathing deeply. They stopped near a bench; she reached over, her fingers brushing against the worn fabric, the tassels on the corners. As Erik began to turn her round, she put a hand on his forearm and he stopped. Slowly, her little hands gripped the arms of her chair, and she pushed herself to her good foot, Nadir and Erik jumped for her, both ready to assist. Marguerite shook them off; she managed to hobble over to what she was so intent on reaching.

Smooth, sturdy, familiar wood. Her hand grasped the barre, standing on her good leg as she would if at a lesson. She began to cry, covering her mouth as she sank to her knees. The barre felt the same under her hand; it seemed to taunt her. Erik's arms came round her waist and he helped her back to her chair.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I hadn't meant for you to cry," he pushed her slowly down the length of the room, letting her put her hand on the barre, trailing the length of it until he said they must go. When they left the foyer, she grasped his hand behind her.

"Thank you Erik," she said and he smiled above her.

It all seemed a blur to Marguerite as Nadir and Erik helped her down the basements and into the waiting boat. Erik saw she was embarrassed and uncomfortable at the necessary assistance, but she said naught. It was a little easier when she was settled on the cushions of the boat, the crutches she had yet to use tucked into a compartment that Erik stood on. They at last arrived at the house by the lake.

It had been seven years since Marguerite had last been in Erik's home. The last time being the night he left for Persia, she wanted to say goodbye and he brought her back with him. It hadn't changed much, a new piece of furniture had been added, a new chaise lounge, mahogany wood, carved claw-shaped feet, the velvet was a stunning royal blue, and olive leaves embroidered in gold floss decorated the edge of it.

"Here now," Erik said and helped her to the chaise, "Sit here, see if my new couch is comfortable."

"I don't know why you bought it," she said "Your other is just as serviceable." He smiled a little

"Is the colour not to your liking?"

"It is not the colour, I am very fond of blue, I only don't understand your want of another."

"I like this one," he said and strode over to his piano bench. Nadir Khan, who had been watching the entire scene, looked at Erik with interest.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "you thought Mademoiselle Giry might prefer this one to the other." Marguerite looked at Erik

"Oh no! You wouldn't go to so much trouble on my account would you?!" she cried "Surely I'm not worth-"  
>"Tush," Erik said "Now then Marguerite, are you going to play for me or aren't you?"<p>

"You have a harp?" she asked and he nodded, he left the room a moment and returned, this time wheeling a great instrument covered in a tarp over to her. He let her pull off the sheet, and when she did so, Marguerite gave a delighted gasp. There before her stood a painted harp, on the soundboard and box was a pretty garden, orange and lemon trees and pretty roses. Along the pillar and T-brace was the scene of the river, a man on a gondola transporting a young couple. The legs and feet were painted blue, matching the rest of the harp. "Oh..." she breathed, "it's lovely, wherever did you find it?"

"Cadiz." He said proudly.

"Spain? You went to Spain for a harp?"

"I did," Erik said "Now play something for us Marguerite. We've very little time for our visit." She edged herself closer to the instrument, lifting her arms; she poised them over the tight strings, finding her finger placements. In a moment, her hands flew over the strings, plucking out a haunting tune, something by a composer Erik couldn't name, which surprised and confounded him.

"Andre's brought me music from Russia, it's a new piece," she said "or at least I believe it is. I'm horrible about composers."

"You know the notes well enough, you read music?" Erik asked as he picked up several sheets. He took a stand and set them down before her so she could see them

"Yes I can," she said

"Play this then," he said and turned away.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_Erik's Fée_

It went on like that for weeks, months almost. Nadir did not come all the time, by then Erik could easily manage Marguerite by himself and Marguerite had figured out the crutches well enough to hobble about the room. It was clear Marguerite was quickly gaining trust in the crutches, she wanted a pair for the house, but Erik forbade it.

"If your mother should ask, or Monsieur Andre, what would you say Marguerite? Your mother would surely put a stop to it." She sighed and nodded

"Of course you are right," she sighed. "May I tell you something?"

"Yes of course," She did not sit in her wheelchair as she did at home. Here, she was free of boundaries. She could move up the steps of his home and down them, sit in any chair she pleased and stand on her good leg if she so chose, though Erik did not like it when she did. This time she sat on her chaise lounge with the gold embroidered olive leaves. To Erik she seemed very pretty, her inky black hair pinned neatly back. She wore black velvet with powder blue silk cuffs and collar. Pink and red sprigs of embroidered flowers dotted the fabric.

"Andre has told me he once wanted to take me for his wife," at this Erik leapt to his feet and paced the room.

"I knew he would not stand by-" he muttered to himself, seeming to forget she was in the room. "I knew he wanted- but of course! He's planned to take Marguerite for his pretty bride to leave Erik all alone!"

"Erik!" she cried and he paused, glancing back to her. "Erik if you let me finish-"

"Well?!" he asked "Have you set a date?"

"What?!"

"You can't refuse him Marguerite," he said. "It is a very good match, as you cannot do anything now-"

"Erik I've not accepted Monsieur Andre, if you'll only listen," she said. "I only meant to tell you in jest, he told me months ago that he had, at one time wanted to have me for his wife. But over the years, as he's taken care of me, and Maman, he's realized he's much happier as we all are." Erik seemed to relax and she caught sight of a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes of course," he said quietly. "He is very good to say so," Erik suddenly did something rather shocking; he _smiled_ at Marguerite. "You could win anyone Marguerite," at this she burst out laughing.

"How strange of you to say such things!" she said, "Me? No I don't think I shall ever marry. No one would want a woman who sits in a chair all day."

"You don't sit in a chair here," he contradicted and she sobered

"That is true. Oh but Erik, if I were pretty, like your dear Christine-"

"She is not mine, and she never was, you know that," he muttered and she continued

"If I was beautiful like her, I should think someone might want me, but I am not at all," she said "I've no feature that is cunning, why even Jane Eyre was elf-like, and they are considered to be handsome creatures. I'm not even a troll."

"A fée," Erik declared, "My Little Giry is a petit fée," she laughed aloud

"Oh yes, I'm a little fairy! Watch me as I nimbly hobble about the room," so taken in the mood she had leapt to her good foot as she spoke, taking the _arabesque ouverte_, she hopped across the floor, recalling the Wilis in _Giselle_. Erik stopped chuckling and stared at her, shocked. She leaned against the wall now, out of breath. Looking up at him, she didn't know what to say,

"A chair," she said at last. "Help me to a chair," he was at her side in moments. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her easily to the chaise lounge and set her there. Faces inches apart, Erik could feel her warm breath on his cheeks. He found his cold fingers barely brushing against her cheek. Her little mouth suddenly settled against his twisted lips. He felt bliss; Christine Daaé had granted him a kiss on the forehead, but sweet Marguerite-

No!" he suddenly cried, leaping away, cowering in the corner.

"Erik," she reached for him, her crutches leaned against another chair so she could not get to them. He stood there shaking, hunched over and staring at his shoes. "Erik," she said softly "Erik come here," slowly, he turned around, she held out her hand for his. When he was close enough, she slipped her fingers in his. Kissing his fingers, she smiled up at him. His glowing eyes twinkled, for a moment, his knees almost buckled but he caught himself.

"I'll take you back now," he managed at last and she nodded slowly.

"You seem on edge Marguerite," she looked up, startled

"No maman," she fiddled with the lace on her cuffs. "Of course not. I suppose I'm only tired."

"Perhaps you should retire early ma petit, recall tomorrow Monsieur Andre wanted to take you on the Seine."

"Oui I remember, I'll go to bed now," she said. Marguerite wasn't in the least bit tired, merely distracted. It was what she'd done in Erik's home that kept her occupied. Her first kiss. And it was Erik, she'd not have expected that seven years ago. It was very confusing to her, but pleasing. Unhappily though, Erik had not come for her in a long while. Almost a whole month and it was taxing on her. She worried that she'd upset him, or he'd left Paris without telling her. It seemed unlikely, but it wouldn't be a complete surprise to her.

"You seem depressed," she looked up to her mother "Would you care to-"

"No Maman, merci. I am very well. Only tired, I'll go to bed, bonne nuit."

"Bonne nuit ma petit," Antoinette watched her daughter wheel herself down the hall and waited for the door to close before she quickly ascended the stairs to her own bedroom. Taking to the wardrobe immediately, she took out her cloak, bonnet and velvet purse. A set of gloves and a key to the house were inside it already, as well as enough money for a cabby. Lastly, she took out a little silver key and unlocked the bottom drawer of the wardrobe and took out the quilt and box of memorabilia. Behind a pair of bedroom slippers and Antoinette's wedding gown was a soft, lumpy package. Tucking it under her arm, she placed all the things back as they were and locked the drawer.

"If Marguerite asks for me, tell her I've only gone to take the air."

"Oui Madame," Trudy said

"Lock the door after me Trudy, and don't open it until I return," the maid nodded and waited until her mistress had climbed up into the cabby and was starting on her way.

**That Night...**

Erik lay quietly in his coffin-bed. He'd never felt weaker in his entire life. A sickening chuckle escaped his cold lips,

"If you could call it a life," he said to himself, a wracking cough seized his skeletal body; his bony fingers clutched a bloody kerchief as he covered his mouth. A salty iron taste filled his mouth; a glass of water rectified it, for the time being at least. His _Don Juan Triumphant_ lay near him, but he made no move to take it from its resting place. "I swore I'd be buried with it," he muttered "Not yet though," he smiled "It is not time yet," Nadir Khan had wrapped him in a blanket, in some futile attempt to keep his corpse-like body warm. Erik knew it did him no good, but if it made Daroga feel better then who was he to say? _"Speaking of Nadir, where is he?"_ Erik thought _"He ought to-"_

"Erik?" a voice called for him, his coughs proved to be his answer and in a moment Antoinette Giry appeared, the Persian at her side. "Erik!" she gasped and went to his side, kneeling down.

"Where is Little Giry?" he asked, crumpling the bloody kerchief in his hands so she would not see.

"You know she cannot," she stopped "Well I thought, she couldn't make the journey here."

"I asked you to bring her," He rasped "I _wanted _her here."

"Forgive me my friend." He laughed

"Friend? How kind of you Madame Giry. You must tell Little Giry I thought her a dear friend as well. No- no you must give her this," his bony fingers dug into his waistcoat pocket and tugged out a cream coloured envelope, a red stamp with Erik's seal on it. "Give this to her," he said "you must promise not to read it Antoinette, give it to her, but do not read it. Do you promise?"

"Yes I do," she nodded. "I brought you something, for safekeeping," she said after setting the letter in her purse for safekeeping.

"Help me sit up Daroga." Erik said, his long fingers gripping the sides of the coffin. Nadir Khan situated the cushion behind his head so he could see. Antoinette handed him the lumpy package. Slowly, he turned it over in his hands, curious. At one end, there were a few stains, dark and red. His glowing eyes stared, wondering a moment before he began to work the knot out of the fabric. Carefully, he reached inside the soft linen and pulled out, to his surprise a ballet slipper. Curious, he reached into the fabric again and pulled out another.

"Light," he commanded, "Give me a light."

"Erik, your eyes-"

"A light!" he roared, before succumbing to a coughing fit. Nadir Khan went to the lamp and turned the wick up. Slowly, Erik turned the shoes over. There were little blotches of peach-pink silk peeping through the darker stains.

_One pirouette. _

It had soaked through the shanks, through the toe boxes and through the heels.

_One damnable, deadly pirouette._

Splattered in a horrific display all across the shoes. Someone could have been mistaken for being murdered in them. Erik shut his eyes, images pushing themselves forward in his brain. He didn't want to see them, not of poor Marguerite but they came anyway. He could see her petit form on the stage. Her cheery smile, her bright eyes snapping. Her saucy winks as she spun past the orchestra pit where Monsieur Reyer stood.

_Inky black curls bouncing. A breathless smile, poised fingers. An intake of breath, the tap of the pointe shoe touching the wood floor, rosin shifting beneath it. It isn't enough of course and she falls. She'll be stunned, shocked that she made such a foolish mistake. She'll try again. Oh Lord, if he'd been there! If Erik had been there!_

"Take them away, for heaven's sake Madame!" Nadir Khan was saying as Erik came to; unaware he'd been clutching the slippers, shaking horribly, so much so that it appeared to the others that he'd had a seizure.

"No!" he roared, coughing into his chest, "No don't take my Little Giry!" he clung to the shoes "I will be buried with them! Antoinette you will bury me with them," tears streamed down his face "I must be buried with her shoes. It is how it must be of course!" he smiled to himself, Antoinette and Nadir Khan stared at Erik as he lay back in the coffin. "Two things so ugly, but so talented must be kept together." His glowing eyes suddenly turned to Antoinette. "You'll let me keep them won't you?" he clutched the shoes to his chest, his bony fingers wrapped around the toe boxes. He seemed like a frightened child, shivering and desperate.

"Yes Erik," she said quietly. "Yes you must keep them." he seemed to relax, his eyes closed and for a moment they thought he'd passed. She was about to turn away when very, very softly Erik spoke.

"And...you will give her the letter?"

"Yes I will Erik."

"You must not read it."

"No I won't."

"And you must tell Marguerite, she must keep the key." Antoinette seemed confused.

"What key?"

"The key I gave her and you must tell her she must watch for me by moonlight," he chuckled to himself, fairly wriggling with giggles. "I'll come for her by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!" he sobered quickly; his eyes softened "Nadir..." a pause "I cannot see you."

"Yes Erik, here I am."

"You must watch over Madame Giry. You must take my box in the opera as well."

"Oh no Erik-"

"Bah! You'll take it, and you'll smoke your disgusting cigars and entertain many fine Mademoiselles there," he coughed again, dark red staining his dark green banyan. "You're far too old to be a bachelor," he chuckled. It was quiet for exactly fifteen minutes. Erik's raspy breathing was the only noise beside the clock on the mantle ticking quietly. "Midnight. Le silence des morts," he croaked, Antoinette looked up, startled

"What?" the clock on the mantle began to chime

_Ding – ding - ding_

"Marguerite," he gasped

"No she isn't here Erik," Antoinette said gently, tears fell from Erik's eyes.

_Ding – ding - ding_

"I haven't fetched her for our visits," he forced out

_Ding-_

"She'll be unhappy with her Erik!"

_Ding-_

"Marguerite, will you forgive your Erik?"

_Ding-_

"Marguerite must forgive me," he clutched the slippers in his bony fingers, the glue and canvas crackled under the pressure. The two visitors leaned closer,

"Why Erik?"

_Ding-_

"She must forgive the ghost..."

_Ding-_

"...for loving her."

_Ding._

"Is he dead?" Antoinette asked at last and Nadir Khan nodded, a hand gently pressing her shoulder. Erik had died with a smile upon his twisted lips.

"He must not be buried with the mask." Nadir said "Let him be free of it once and for all."

"His _Don Juan_," she said quietly.

"It will go with him along with the shoes."

"What am I to tell Marguerite?" Antoinette asked softly and she burst into tears.

Marguerite clutched the unopened note in her hands. She sat in her wheelchair, the envelope shaking in her hands. Antoinette sighed, kissing her forehead.

"Shall I sit while you read it?"

"No," she said softly "No he meant for me to have it alone." Antoinette nodded, smiling a little.

"Sometimes I think you understand him better than I do." And she left her daughter there. The door shut and Marguerite ripped open the letter, the writing was not Erik's but the Persian's.

"_My dear Marguerite,_

_I am dictating this to the Daroga as I cannot write; you must forgive me for that. I am dying of course; I find it laughable that of all the things I could die of, it is because of some disease in the lungs that I am wasting away. Is that not ridiculous? I thought long ago I might be killed in a prison somewhere in Prussia or more likely Persia. No matter, here I am at the house by the lake, comfortably situated in my bed. The stupid cat that did not claw the furniture (and therefore was not drowned) has decided to keep me company and sleeps on my feet. Now Marguerite, I am writing because you must not see me as I am. You must not protest or bat your pretty eyes and plead to visit, no it is not a sight for such a pretty thing like you to behold, or contract. Consumption is not a nice disease. Daroga reminds me I am leaving off track of why I wrote, had I the strength I would throw my bed slippers at him, but as it might jar the writing, and I have no such strength, I shan't. Now Marguerite, you must promise me you won't mope and sob day in and day out for your Erik. I am resigned to my fate, as should you. You have been very good to me my dear, and I must ask of you one thing. My sweet little fée, marry Monsieur Andre. Make the poor man happy. Don't let him be tormented by your charms that he cannot claim anymore than I can. You very kindly embraced me once, and I am grateful my sweet girl. But you must marry Monsieur Andre. You are always so pleased when he visits you, I know you are. You recall you talked much of him during our visits. Surely he is one who can please you Marguerite. And you must not become depressed over me while you're married. You are to be happy and gay as you always are. You'll play for him now, and he shall protect you, I'll gladly pass those rights over to him, knowing now that he cares for you. You know it was my duty to watch over you Marguerite; your mother was good enough to grant me that at least. It is late now, and I am growing weary. I think tonight must be my last, and I find my mind slipping. Daroga asks for forgiveness, he is staining the paper with his tears. That is kind of him is it not Marguerite? You will remember your promise Little Giry, won't you? Yes, I know you will, even if I did not ask you, I believe you would marry him. I shall not bid you "au revoir" nor "Jusqu'à bientôt" but merely goodbye. _

_Goodbye ma peu fée,_

_Your Erik."_

**October, floating on the Seine...**

"Oui, I am comfortable, merci." Marguerite said to the attentive serveur, who nodded at her dismissal and went to see to the other guests. They sat on the deck of a fine boat-café where many couples and travelers milled about, sitting and eating, all enjoying the cool autumn afternoon. Marguerite, wrapped in a dark blue woolen coat trimmed in velvet, was actually finding she was enjoying the day. It had been difficult for her to be used to Erik being gone, for good now. She had asked Andre to postpone their trip on the Seine for a little while, and though he'd been a little confused, he had graciously agreed. Now they sat, she quietly sipping a cup of tea, he'd ordered only coffee and hot milk, the little jug of steaming milk sat beside the porcelain.

"My dear, you seem on edge, is something bothering you?"

"Non merci Andre only..." she frowned, her gloved finger tracing the gold painted rim of her cup.

"Only what? Now I'm sure you're troubled, you haven't touched your fruit," she blushed. Whenever she was upset, she couldn't eat.

"I'm not upset," she contradicted lightly "Only a little...distracted."

"Perhaps we might make remedy of this; a turn through the park later, what do you say?" Andre knew she greatly enjoyed the walks they took, and found it cheered her immensely.

"Oh yes, merci, I should like that," she took a sip of her tea to satisfy him, before she sat back, thinking a moment. "Andre,"

"Hm?"

"Andre, do you recall earlier this year, before we left for Provence, when-when you told me you once wanted to marry me?" his eyebrows rose at this

"Yes I recall, good heavens, I don't see why you-"

"Do you still- feel this way?" she asked suddenly, he seemed aghast; slowly he leaned back in the white-painted iron chair.

"Why do you ask?" her gaze had drifted down to the corner of their table, her dark eyes filling with tears. "Marguerite, look at me please." He said gently. At last, she lifted her eyes "Why do you wish to know?" he asked again.

"I...believe I may have answer to it." He didn't move for a moment, the wail of a violin across the boat where the orchestra sat began to play.

"Oh..." he said finally, he looked down at his café. "Well I- I had thought you- you wouldn't ever...care for me in such a way." She took a breath, realizing she'd made herself a fool and hurt him terribly. "But," he looked to her now, "despite my efforts to...stop these...feelings for you- I find I cannot." He smiled bittersweetly "I still love you Marguerite."

"Then would you-" she looked down at her glass again, her fingers tracing a pattern on the tablecloth "What I mean is-"

"Mademoiselle?" the serveur stood at her side with another cup of tea, the one before her now cold.

"Oh...yes. Thank you." She said, he took her old one away and set down another. He set another jug of steaming milk beside Andre's cup and replaced the cold coffee with a warm one. She waited until the serveur was gone down to another table before she continued. "What if...what if we were to- if we could," she looked up at last "marry?" He grasped her hand that rested on the table

"Marguerite, are you certain? What-why all of a sudden-"  
>"Andre we must realize now, how- happy you've made me, my mother- no of course I don't feel indebted to you!" she said as he began to protest. "And you must not believe that it is because no other man would have me. Andre you must know how...pleasant and good it is to sit with you, to look forward to your visits. To finding myself enjoying your company so greatly that I believe each moment very...warm, happy," she was surprised to find herself not thinking of Erik, but truthfully speaking of Andre.<p>

"Are you certain," he asked, "that this is what you want?"

"Yes," she said smiling a little. "Yes I am sure. I've thought for a long time on this. Though it had been suggested to me, no I shan't tell, no it was not Maman. I came to this decision myself." Andre looked at her carefully, he'd come to know Marguerite was not a good fibber, and he was pleased to find she was in earnest. Her gaze steady and her hands warm. She did not fidget or look away and tremble.

"Oh Marguerite," he sighed "chérie, I should be glad to keep you as my wife." Her tiny smile grew, and she impulsively kissed his hand, holding it in both her own. "We're nearing our stop." He said, still unable to tear his eyes from her, now his fiancée. It sounded very sweet to him, fiancée- Marguerite Giry.

"May we take a shorter walk through the park? Mama and Nadir Khan will be home soon, I'd like to meet them." and he nodded.

"Whatever you wish," he paid the bill and took the brake off the wheelchair. The gangplank was lowered to the sidewalk and people stood aside so he could wheel her down without worry of trampling anyone.

To the onlookers, the young woman seemed to glow with happiness. And the older gentleman, perhaps in his early fifties, seemed to take extra care with her. Too much to be a father. A father is protective to the point of annoyance. But the man seemed to possess a sweet gentleness when he bent to speak quietly to her, their smiles too loving, too pure and genuine to be a father and daughter. Though some might have frowned upon the match, the not-so-pretty crippled girl and the older gentleman, that moved down the cobblestone walk. It was still clear to all around that they were happy, and cared little if the onlookers approved or not.


End file.
